Katsuki doesn't even need to bully his way onto the ambulance. The paramedics know him and know better than to stand in his way in these kinds of situations. They just close the doors and work around him, and he knows better than to get in their way.
They have an understanding.
Lying on the gurney, Izuku looks so much worse under the harsh florescent lights: ashen skin, bruises blooming purple along his jaw, scrapes along one side of his face where that one asshole had slammed him into a wall. The blankets hide the worst of it, Katsuki knows: the broken ribs, the dislocated knee and hip. He tries not to remember the scream when Izuku had landed and his leg had crumpled beneath him. He swallows, his throat dry from more than just the fight, and eases into the second jump seat, careful not to jostle his dislocated shoulder. It throbs anyway. With a sigh, he swipes his free hand down his face before he registers just how gross his glove is. Clamping the glove between his legs, he yanks it off, half listening to the paramedics questions and Izuku's quiet answers.
Izuku's hand is flopped over the side of the gurney, limp and swaying to the movement of the ambulance as it lurches into motion. Careful to avoid the cannula, Katsuki slips his fingers into Izuku's and gives a quick squeeze.
Eyelids flutter and Izuku tilts his head to look at him, half-lidded and hazy.
"...Kacchan...?" His voice sounds wrecked, raw from dust and smoke and shouting.
"Yeah, it's me," he replies, running his thumb across battered knuckles. "You took a beating, huh?"
Izuku grimaces and Katsuki can't be sure if it's guilt or more fucking joint pain but from the way Izuku reflexively squeezes his hand, he thinks it might be the latter.
The paramedic leans in to check on him, fiddling with the IV. Katsuki releases a breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding when Izuku's grip relaxes, expression smoothing out.
"I broke m'promise," he croaks and Katsuki hopes the slur in his voice is from the good drugs and not a concussion no one's noticed yet. It also takes him a second to get what promise Izuku is referring to.
"What, your promise not to bother any more paramedics?" he scoffs. He's trying for levity, even though his gut is sour with it. But here and now is not the time for that conversation. And anyway, it seems lost on Izuku who gives a slight nod.
Katsuki gestures to the sling cradling his useless left arm.
"Oi, I dunno if you've noticed but I'm here too," he reminds him. Izuku chews his lip. Katsuki signs again, taking Izuku's hand back. "You weren't to know that asshole had the quirk he did. Who the hell would expect a collagen modifying quirk. Hell, I thought he was some kinda support goon until my fuckin' arm came out of its socket."
"'s'pretty interesting though," Izuku murmurs. Katsuki scoffs and rolls his eyes.
"Course you'd think that."
Izuku manages a tired little smile just as the ambulance comes to a stop, doors opening to the familiar A&E entrance.
"I'll be right behind you, ok?" Katsuki murmurs, brushing a gentle kiss to Izuku's forehead while the paramedics are distracted doing whatever the hell they do with the receiving team.
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Ahsoka Series
Pairings: Shin Hati/ Sabine Wren, Shin Hati & Ahsoka Tano
Characters: Shin Hati, Sabine Wren, Ahsoka Tano, Grand Admiral Thrawn, The Nightmothers, Zombie Troopers, Great Mother Klothow, Great Mother Aktropaw, Great Mother Lakesis
Warnings: This one is straight up Torture, Blood and Violence, Major Character Injury, Hopelessness, Blood-loss, Delirium, There Will Be War Crimes, Mind-Alteration, Undead, Body Horror, sensory deprivation . Does it count as OOC if it’s a reaction to literal torture lmao?
Notes: For Whumptober Day 11
Prompt: “Captivity | “No one will find you.”
Word Count: 2,970
AO3 Link: Here!
Baylan’s last order had been to return to Thrawn and to take some place he had prepared for her, and even though she’d lost him and did not understand his reasoning any longer, they still knew that he would never lead her wrong…
Until she returned to the Chimera, and the… witches accused her of knowing more than she was willing to tell in her report, accusing her of leaving out some important, omnipotent detail that could alter their success in… whatever the krif they were doing.
The last thing Shin remembered was the feeling of ice in her veins and emerald flames licking at her skin.
When she woke… or… her mind slipped into consciousness? She couldn’t see, the darkness was unending, and the force was silent. Her armor was gone, with the feeling of claw marks tearing into her skin where the metal plating had once sat, as if each piece had been torn from her body by some otherworldly being.
There was a spark, a glimmer of something earthen in her peripherals. Her boots scraped against cold stone as she turned to face it; Heat arced where fire wrapped around her forearm, scorching into her skin as a cold metallic base secured itself into her flesh with thin barbs.
Shin did not cry out, and after her first knee-jerk reaction to yank her arm back, away from the nerve-igniting pain of the simmering inferno, the blonde forced herself to still. The green of the witch’s fire gave her light she could use to see, Baylan had taught her long ago to not allow her fear to cloud her judgment in a situation just like this, that stopping her emotions would be the key to survival in their journeys.
“Sometimes, to stay alive, you have to kill your mind.”
In the dim lighting and through the haze of pain, Shin was able to find details about the room she’d found herself in; They could stretch out fingertip to fingertip across each side of the room twice, with crumblings walls and a foul odor coming from a corner of the room. A corpse sat decaying in stormtrooper armor, bones broken and bent in odd angles, old scorch marks against plastoid in a similar pattern across his arm…
When the next metal cable ignited in magik ejected from the wall, Shin waited until the sound of the arcing metal got close enough, stepping closer to the restraint on her side and allowing the tool to crash into the stone, crumbling rock dropped to the floor as spools pulled the side back in.
“Clever,” Thrawn’s syrupy voice called from somewhere she could not identify, as if it were originating from the base of their skull, as the man’s presence filled every aspect of her life that the Force had once occupied; It was a trick, something those filthy witches must have set up; Thrawn was no god, he was a liar, an oathbreaker, a warlord, and a cheat.
“What have you done?” She called into the void, as the flames were doused over her arm, scorched blood rising to the surface around the cable as it was no longer burned away,
“Your Master, Lord Skoll, warned us of this. Your disloyalty,” Shin tugged on the cord, nose twitching as the pain was brought to the forefront of her mind. “That if anything were to happen to him, it would be your fault,”
Stone ground together painfully, they had to force their hands over their ears at the sound, feet scrambling to push back into the corner, body awkwardly positioned over the trooper’s corpse until their shoulder blades pressed into the cold of the wall.
Artificial light flooded the cell, which soon became overcrowded as the three extra witches flooded the room, staring into her soul with voidless black eyes. They had to force themselves to meet the gaze of the woman in the center, even though the sick, echoing whispers around her had every system in her body begging her to cower, that hiding in the decimated corpse of Thrawn’s trooper would be a better experience than this;
Baylan had known she didn’t like witches, had promised she would never have to deal with them again, and yet, all he’d done since Morgan had reached out to them was to find ways to explain their involvement, how sorry he was about the necessary evil they would have to endure together to reach an end goal he kept only to himself.
The hand on her shoulder was gentle, at first, until yellowed nails started pressing into the sinew of her shoulder, sinking past her flesh like she was made of nothing; “You are nothing,” The echoes around the great mother’s promised, as she was yanked away from her corner by a woman whose body should not have had that kind of strength.
“Your Master had too much faith in your abilities, Padawan,” The cool tendril of metal was wrapped around their arm manually, no flames to set her skin ablaze and to scorch failure on the surface. “You will learn the price of failure. Your actions have consequences.” The sickly woman reminded in her ear, Shin could see the flicker of a smile pulling at her lips, as she pulled genuine enjoyment from the fear pouring off of the Apprentice in waves.
“You failed in your mission, Mercenary,” Thrawn’s voice returned; Shin wanted to see him, wanted to both spit on his boots in her dislike of the man, and to beg for redemption, knowing that this was the life Baylan had worked so hard to create for her, while he went off on his own. “There is a price to be paid for letting Ezra Bridger and Sabine Wren live, for allowing Ahsoka Tano to land, and for losing my soldiers…” As she was forced back to the center of the room, they could picture the ugly twist of his lips, the way blue skin would crinkle around his eyes as his lips parted to speak once more. “No one will find you.”
Two witches pulled from the room, her arms were forced outwards to create a line parallel to the floor as the wires pulled taut. Their heart hammered in their chest as they desperately reached for Baylan in the force, reached for the promise of safety offered in the eyes of a predator, reaching for anything in the force that could help.
All she found were the raspy whispers and the swirling mist of majik as the Great Mother whispered into the growing void around her. Her shoulders were pulled to the brink as the whispers prickled at her skin like knives intent on peeling away her flesh layer by layer.
“Stop,” She pleaded to empty ears, her own voice fading from her reality as the ancient tongues forced translations past her eardrums in ear-splitting screams. “I will do better,” She begged to no avail. The promises of failure, of loneliness and abandonment, combined with the fears they’d hidden down so far since losing her parents to a shadow of green flame, gray skin, and black tattoos.
“You were predestined to fail your Master, you lived long past your use as a sentient being…. Perhaps, you may find some use in the afterlife,” There was a feeling of mocking pity from the woman before she turned, red satin cloak flashing over dusty stone as she swept from the room. The last thing Shin saw before darkness encroached once more was the steady drip of crimson from the cable in her right arm, splattering onto the old stains of rust embedded into the dirt below.
There was no way for Shin to know how much time had passed inside of the spire, metal cable long since pulling her shoulders from her sockets, screams had bled her throat dry ages ago, hunger pangs in her stomach at infrequent intervals and the metallic smell of infection festering in her arms were the only thing that forced her to realize consciousness was upon her.
There was no respite between the hours she found herself awake or asleep, words drilled into her skull like knives all hours of the day. Her eyes never did adjust to the lack of light, but she always felt like there was something moving around her. The force offered no strength, memories offered no fondness, and her training offered no knowledge. She was not meant to survive this, would be better suited as a corpse like the ‘friend’ behind her.
“What did you do to piss of Thrawn?” She asked her deceased companion dryly one night, long after the spire had shaken with rumbles of activity outside, after the world beyond the stone had fallen more silent than even before; without the haunting presence of the witches just on the other side.
“Grraaasgh,” A haunting voice replied with the sound of crinkling plastoid and the oozing sound of flesh separating from it’s confines. “Hrrnnguuuuuu!”
They tried to turn, to face the corpse that had behind her this whole time, but they could not force their weight to raise on locked knees, fear ignited in her bloodstream at the nauseating sound of a reanimated corpse dragging itself with squelching thuds.
Thick, warm fingers wrapped around her ankle, she could feel mottled flesh through the layer of grime, dirt, and general yuckiness that had clung to her own skin. The Trooper’s lurid rasps for air it’s lungs were too decomposed to need filled her ears, the first reprieve she’d had from the ache of the Great Mother’s voice, but a very unwelcome one.
White light pierced the wall across from her, a stream of plasma cutting away at the wall, a beam of a vivid pink joined feet away from the first, igniting the room in light that hurt, but she could not look away as the corpse crawled up her body; it’s legs were prone in the corner, still twitching as they tried to catch up to the rest of him. Dried up organs spilled from where his body had split, with wisps of majik keeping pieces of himself together. His jaw hung from the bottom of the helmet, part of Shin wanted to despise the way in which his breath smelled better than her own.
“Master, please,” She croaked in vain, one last time. Baylan had saved her once, twenty years ago when he’d saved a small child he owed nothing to, surely, she’d repaid her debts enough to ask one last time.
Nothing came, the pillars of light on the other side taunted her as nails tore at her own flesh, weak from dehydration and brittle from the cords that had applied a consistent pressure to her dislocated shoulders.
The trooper's hands clawed at her face, she forced her eyes to shut even as he pulled at her eyelids; Shin had always thought they would face the end with dignity, but this had been anything but, had been waning and pushing everything they had ever known… She could not face it, not like this; Because she was not Shin Hati, Apprentice of Baylan Skoll, she was nothing, a failed mercenary, and she was a coward, a coward who could not face the consequences of their actions.
There was a familiar smell of burning ozone and flesh, the hand at her face dropped to the floor with a wet thunk. “Get away from her!” Someone shouted, she could hear the sabers wooshing, but could not coax her eyes open. What a way to die, dream up some nameless savior to cope with the end. Would it be more painful, putting a name to the memory of purple hair and painted armor, knowing that she’d thought up a Mandalorian as her savior, over her own Master.
“Sabine,” A calmer, collected voice called, though Shin could not place it as her weight sagged uselessly into the metal that had kept her in place for so long.
“Shin,” Sabine’s voice was close, the hand that rested on her bicep had the blonde crying out in pain, a raspy whisper that brought blood to her lips as her body convulsed away from it. “Karabast, Ahsoka… what do we do?”
“Let me die,” Shin rasped, begging, at their mercy, eyes still shut, numb fingers clenching against the painful pull of muscle and cable. “Let me die,”
“I’m not doing that, di’kut,” The Mandalorian was close, too close, in space that had only been personal for so long. She could feel the displacement of air around her bared skin, like the Magik fire that had scorched itself in her soul.
“Her shoulders are out of place,” Sabine continued to her Master, following the wind of the cords to the points they’d dug into scrawny biceps, blood all but wielding metal to flesh.
“This isn’t going to be fun for any of us,” Ahsoka promised somberly, “Put gloves on, we can’t risk infection spreading,” The woman ordered, the smell of late cutting through the odor of corpse and rotting sentient. The material was cool when Ahsoka’s hand touched feverish skin, though it ignited a pain that had her trying to jerk back.
“Hold her still, no matter what she says, how she reacts; keep her as still as you can until she’s free,”
There was silence and a quiet rustling, before she felt the press of armor against her back, the feeling of Sabine’s knees working under her just enough to guide them back against her chest. “I’ve got you,” The Mandalorian grumbled in their ear, the first comforting promise they’d had in so long.
Any reprieve from the darkness offered by strong arms around her brittle frame died with the pain of barbs being worked from her skin. She reacted as if struck by lighting, Air was forced into reluctant lungs with gasps as she struggled with an inhuman amount of strength against the Mandalorian forcing her still as each barb was removed, hot blood welling to the surface as ehr only support for days was taken away.
Through the pain, she was aware of her begging, pathetic sounds not unlike the same promises she’d made to the witches, to Thrawn, the memory of her Master, and to the void that had swallowed her. “Please, please stop; I’ll be better I’ll do it right, I’m sorry, please stop. I’m sorry,” She rasped, begging the Togruta, the Mandalorian, and all who had ever held her life and wellbeing in their hands as the two Jedi did now. “Let me die, please; please. I have no more to give,” They wailed to sympathetic beings.
One of Sabine’s arms crossed her chest, while the other stayed pressed across her waist like a safety belt. The rebels had known war, had seen the effects it had on the survivors, the Inquisitors who’d been handled like Shin had. But the blonde still clung onto a purpose like a desperate child caught stealing; Even if they didn’t recognize it, it was their fingers wrapped around their life, around the vestiges of light that had been pushed through whatever the witches had done.
Shin’s body sagged forward, held up by the Mandalorian as their struggling core muscles refused to cooperate, exhausted from the constant strain of keeping herself up. “I’m going to put your shoulder back in place, Shin.” Ahsoka called from another planet away, placing steady hands against their trembling limbs.
There was a wet pop and another cry of pain as her shoulder was guided back into the socket. The force eased the transition, as if the Jedi had managed to use the power offered to help guide it into place just to spare the fallen apprentice some pain.
The process was agonizingly repeated to her other side, until both of her shoulders were back in place, and she was dropping entirely into Sabine’s arms, the aches fading under the gentle mintrations of the tap of Sabine’s finger against her breastbone, a beat too quick to be their own heart beat, but one she could feel through her back, even with the cool beskar separating them.
The Mandalorian’s chest rose and fell in an exaggerated motion as well, coercing Shin’s frayed body to follow her example in calm intakes of air and deep breaths out; Shin could not feel the force around her, but she could feel the pain ebbing away into something indescribable, like something that ran parallel to the cosmic power she’d once called home.
“Shin,” Ahsoka’s voice was soft but demanding. “It’s time to open your eyes,”
The command was gentle, though Shin could feel the urgency to her tone, a flicker of fear that had her Padawan stiffening under the prisoner.
It was hard to crack their eyes open, the light hurt so bad, it was too much, too overwhelming; a soft whine passed broken lips. Light pooled in from the cut away sections of wall, the spire had been destroyed, and Shin had been unlucky enough to remain in one of the final standing pillars of the structure.
The Togruta’s shoulders drooped in relief; Shin’s eyes, despite being windows to an unimaginable pain were not tainted by the dark side. There was still hope; and that was always enough. “You can rest now, Padawan,” Ahsoka soothed, the suggestion in the force light, though the woman had no barriers left to raise, their eyes blinking closed slowly, head lolling back against Sabine as they succumbed readily to the offer for rest.
“Thank you, master.” They whispered as consciousness finally released its hold on her.
“Thank the gotal’ad her Howler found us when he did,” Sabine grumbled, nose twitching at last, the smell of the isolated cell hitting her enough to have her shifting uncomfortably under Shin. “We’ll be able to get her back okay?”
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, captivity, creepy/intimate/possessive whumper, stress position, restraints, conditioning (but not pet whump), dislocation
Timeline notes: I’m not precisely sure when this takes place, but it’s past where canon currently leaves off
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“You know, I’m not usually one to get into the holidays too much.” Oliver circles her slowly, admiring his work. “Unfortunately I have to celebrate them to some extent. So many parties to attend, bonuses to approve, blah blah blah. In my free time usually I’d rather pretend things like Christmas don’t exist.”
He pauses in his pacing, looking her up and down with a smile. “But I saw this photo set online done with Christmas lights, and I couldn’t resist the aesthetic. And honestly? It’s turning out even better than I expected.”
Cadence tries to tune him out and keep her focus on balancing. Some of the lights are wrapped around each ankle and stretched out to hook to the walls, keeping her feet spread precisely. The rest are twined around and between her arms, which are pulled behind her back and so high up in the air that she’s been forced to bend over forward, her head down in line with her knees. She can’t bend her knees to relieve any of the pressure, though. She can’t even rest her heels fully on the floor. Her shoulders are already threatening to pull out of socket as it is.
“Aww.” Oliver stoops down, arms resting on his knees, and uses his thumb to swipe away a tear she hadn’t even realized was falling. “Don’t cry, dove. You look amazing.”
A part of her that normally stays deep, deep down raises its head, threatening to make angry words burst from her lips. The rest of her, the parts that have been thoroughly, irrevocably trained by this man, shoves it back down where it belongs.
Standing again, he backs away and studies her some more, pulling out his phone to snap a few pictures from different angles. Cadence squeezes her eyes shut, trying to ignore the humiliation that crawls up her throat. Her one saving grace is that she knows the photos will stay between the two of them. It doesn’t make the fact that he’ll have them, looking at them, thinking about her when they’re apart, any more digestible.
“Needs a little something else, I think.” He disappears for a moment, then comes back and begins messing with her arms. She can’t tell what he’s doing until he backs away from her and she sees the box of ornaments in his hand. “There. Now you look like a perfect little Christmas tree. Much better than the normal kind, honestly. Wish I could set you up in my office, just like this. Now that would make me smile, unlike the stupid fake decorations my secretary always tries to push on me.” Sighing, he takes another photo. “Ah, well. I’ll just have to look at these pictures on my computer while I work, instead.”
Cadence’s legs are trembling. She’s not sure how much longer she can hold herself in this pose, but she has no other choice. Another tear escapes. She grits her teeth together and tries to think about anything but the burning arches of her feet.
“One last finishing touch…the star on top.” Oliver has approached her from behind again. She feels something cold and metal slipping over her hands, then in the next instant, all her hard work falls apart. He bumps her arms forward, just the slightest bit, but it’s all her left shoulder can take. It dislocates with a pop that’s like an explosion in her ear.
To begin with, she doesn’t even realize she’s screaming past the white hot pain. Then her voice fades as the pain ebbs slightly, only to be released again as a series of choking sobs. Her stance is askew now. The dislocated shoulder hangs lower than the other, throbbing and burning with every minute twitch of her body.
“Whoops,” Oliver chuckles. “That was unexpected. Not unwelcome, though, especially when you scream so prettily.” He finishes adjusting the star and starts taking more pictures as if she’s not in horrific pain. “Honestly I think the tears make everything better.” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he yanks her head up so he can look her in the eyes. She screams again.
“Mm, yes.” He strokes her wet cheek with his thumb. “Just the way I like you.” One last photo, this time a close up of her face, and he drops her head to stand back again.
“My perfect little Christmas tree. I think this calls for a bit of apple cider and maybe even some holiday music. Be right back, darling.”
He leaves her alone, shaking, trying her best to reign in the sobs that make it feel like she’s being stabbed again and again.
CW; dislocation, sadistic whumper, contortionism, body horror honestly. This is just a little more intense
The boy was trembling, holding his elbows. He was still wearing his costume, hair damp from sweat. The sounds of the other circus acts filled small tent with distant music and cheers. His teeth chattered in the humid air.
“Sir, s-sir please. Can- how, how to do I prove to you that I’ll behave? Please give me a chance to prove myself. Please?”
The Ringmaster smiled and straightened his long coat. So eager to please. Perfect. Of course he would be, he would never accept anything else.
The boy had done his act flawlessly again. It was always fascinating to watch him contort his body into something that seemed… inhuman. There were plenty of supernatural in this show, but Lee wasn’t one of them. He was just another human performer with nowhere else to go. Raised here, born before the Ringmaster had bought the company.
The wind blew a bar of music and a rush of the crowd from the big tent. He didn’t have much time before he needed to introduce the next act, but that was part of the game, now wasn’t it? The limited time only made every movement deliberate and sweet.
Just another rush.
“Now Lee, you know what I say about obedience.”
Lee’s eyes fall closed and he shivers. “That, that it has to be re-reinforced.”
Fat, heavy tears roll down his face and the Ringmaster soaked in the sight of them. He would call them crocodile tears, but he knows they’re not.
The crowd cheers and brings him back. Tick tock, the clock is counting down. He takes a deliberate step towards the boy and he shudders. He curls his hands close against his chest, hunching his shoulders a little to protect them.
He knows the game, too.
“It hurts.”
Its barely more than a whisper, but the man hears it. He hears it and allows the shadow of a smile to glaze over his lips. Lee’s eyes are closed, and besides - he knows anyway.
“I know,” says the Ringmaster calmingly, sickeningly, as he takes another step forward. Stalking. “I know it does, but we can’t have you trying to run away again.”
Lee chokes on a sob. How many nights, how many years had it been since he had tried to run? Regardless, he nods. He knows; and god does he regret it. He’s regretted it for years, and his waking nightmare is that he will regret it for years to come.
How long will it take before the Ringmaster tires of this game?
“Hand.”
The man is standing in front of him know, Lee’s eyes fixed on the man’s shoes. It feels like someone has wrapped a band around his heart and it is squeezing him to death. The terror, the fear never lessens. They never dull.
“Please. Please let me do it,” he whines softly. He can pull the joint out carefully, he can make it hurt so much less. If he’s lucky, maybe not even at all.
There’s no answer. Lee knows there’s a time limit, he knows that the Ringmaster will get rushed and then there will be no comfort, no pauses. Trembling, he offers up his hand.
The Ringmaster grins and takes the hand gently, brushing his fingers down the back. He wraps a hand firmly around Lee’s wrist, and the other around the boy’s thumb. Lee bites his lip, fighting with the fire under his skin that is screaming at him pull your hand away.
The man tugs sharply, and the joint abused from nights and nights of this game gives. Lee gasps harshly, but it’s nothing. Nothing compared to what’s coming. Without prompting he lifts his other hand. The Ringmaster smiles and takes it lovingly.
Lee begged to prove his obedience but doesn’t seem to realize he does every time.
The process is repeated on his other hand, and Lee judders out another gasp. The Ringmaster holds the boy’s hands for a moment, brushing his thumb back and forth to sooth, before squeezing harshly. Lee keens, knees going slack.
The Ringmaster never lets him fall.
“Good job, you’re doing so good tonight, Lee.” The boy sobs, leaning his head to rest in the center of the man’s chest. It hurts, it hurts and it’ll only get worse, but there’s a single moment where at least he can be distracted by the kind words.
A length of rope is brought up and used to tie his hands tightly. Once, one time, he dislocated his thumbs to try and escape the cuffs. One time, but one time was enough for it to be added to the game. A precaution as the Ringmaster calls it.
Lee calls it torture.
His hands throbs and the rope cuts into his wrists as the man pulls him close to his chest. The man lays a hand across the boy’s dark hair and wraps the other around his waist. He breathes deeply, contentedly, while Lee cries into his woolen coat and ignores the pressure on his poor hands.
The moment is brief, and when the man pulls him away there’s a new look of fire in his eyes. He seizes high on the boy’s arm, just below the shoulder joint, and raises the grip of his arm around Lee’s chest. A violent yank, and Lee cries out through his sobs.
His legs give out completely, and the Ringmaster brings them both down to their knees. He brushes strand of fine hair out of the boy’s eyes, admiring the tears on his face and listening to the pitiful, half spoken pleas.
“Just one more,” he murmurs, feeling the shiver his words produce. “Just one more and you’ll be done. You’ve done well, Lee. Can you do that for me?” Lee’s response is only more cries, but the Ringmaster accepts it just the same.
He only shudders when the hands come again. Another wrench, another sickening pop for deep inside his body, and screams. He can feel his voice grate in his throat. The pain is overwhelming him, oppressing him into a weeping ball on his knees. The hands disappear, and he’s drifting. Drifting and alone and in agony.
A hand cards in his hair and lifts, forcing him to stand. Once he’s on his feet, the hand doesn’t leave. It stays. It stays, and it pulls him backwards. Backwards and down, bending farther and farther until his spine lays atop itself. Only then does the hand slip away.
Lee takes a controlled breath as he takes in the world upside down. The worst part is over, now. It hurts, it hurts more than anything else, but the sharp, terrifying part is over. This stretch is normal for him, dark hair brushing the ground next to his ankles. His shoulders burn and pull and buzz like insects, but he can breathe through the consistent pain. The sharp, anticipated pain is what he fears.
He can find focus in moments like this, and the pain can fade as he focuses on balance and breath.
The Ringmaster’s hand grabs his hair once again, now his bangs, and pulls him through his legs. The world rights itself, and he adjusts, whimpering as he brings his dislocated shoulders around and his hands in front. Tears that were trapped by gravity glide down his face in abundance, but he can’t let himself feel them right now.
The Ringmaster lays a hand on his taunt stomach. “Down.”
Lee folds his knees and lowers his chest down to the floor. Once he’s on the rug, he tucks his legs under his chin and nuzzles his aching hands with his nose. He closes his eyes and listens to his own breathing, counting. He can’t break down, now, he can’t cry. He needs to focus on breathing, on counting. Feeling small is a comfort to him, always has been. When he’s open, he’s vulnerable. But when he’s folded and compact, he’s safe. Small and safe and unseen. He pulls himself a little tighter together to stifle a sob that would wrack him.
The Ringmaster stands above the twisted form, observing every jerk and spasm. Time is almost up, but Lee is focused now, hiding deeper inside his head.
No matter. It’s just as enjoyable to unfold him slowly after the performance.
He taps the crate with his shoe, reminding Lee of where it is. Lee shudders in his compact form, but inches back towards it. Once inside, the Ringmaster comes around front and pets his cheek gently. Yes, to comfort him, but also to watch the mesmerizing shudder. It’s a sight to behold; a body so contorted shudder.
He closes the lid and straightens his coat. Time has come for him to introduce his next act, and the smile on his face is as genuine as it will ever be. It’s been fed by weeping and fear, thoughts still wandering to little Lee waiting for his return.
just found out the thing I do with my shoulders is something not everyone can do and is almost like dislocating them on command, feeling,,, uh,,,, ??????,,
